Mrs. Capsicum seated herself majestically—her lip quivered with rage, and an unhappy poodle, who came to be caressed, and received a sweeping blow from her foot, which caused him to throw a ludicrous somerset. Now, thought I, “look out for squalls.”
General Capsicum knew, probably from experience, that his spouse would generally have the last word, but on the present occasion he was determined (or deemed it politic) to have the first.
“Mrs. Capsicum, mee dear,” said he, in a deprecating tone, “you don’t appear to persave our young friend here, Mr. Gernon” (wishing clearly to throw me out as a tub to the whale). The lady measured me with a momentary glance, and made the stiffest conceivable inclination, accompanied by a look of the concentrated essence of vinegar and brimstone; it was positively annihilating.
After certain premonitory symptoms of Mrs. Capsicum’s passion, out it came:—
“Ginrel Capsicum,” said she, “aither I lave your house, or that rascal Khoda Buccas, coachmaun, laves your service.”
She then proceeded to detail some neglect of which the unfortunate Jehu had been guilty. The general tried to mollify her, but without success, and Khoda Buccas was summoned to the “presence” to answer for his misdeeds: in he came, with a low salaam, and trembling from head to foot.
The general was about to open the charges when Khoda Buccas, who knew all about it beforehand, broke in upon him, and, with the full energy of alarm and great volubility, entered clamorously on his defence.
“Mera kooch kussor nuheen Kodabund (No fault of mine, servant of the Lord, and protector of the poor), but Bijlee Goorah (the horse Lightning), was sick (sick maun Hogeya),[[12]] and then the roan had lost her hind shoes, Gureebpurwar. Here and there, all over the bazaar, your slave hunted for the blacksmith, and could not find him. At last your slave found him, and said, ‘Come quick and shoe Summon Goorah (the roan horse), for the lady will want the carriage, and her disposition is a little warm (misaj tora gurrum), and your slave will be beat and get into trouble;’ and so he said to me ‘Brother,’ said he, &c., &c., and so I was late.”
This and a good deal more, as explained to me by Mrs. Delaval, was the rambling defence of Khoda Buccas, coachmaun. The old gentleman seemed disposed to admit its sufficiency; but madame peremptorily ordered off the unhappy charioteer, with the comfortable assurance that he should be flogged and dismissed.
Oh, tyranny, thou propensity of ungenerous souls! like Othello’s love, thou growest with indulgence; till, like to every other evil, thou at last evokest the spirit that lays thee low!